The Unsung Sorrow
by Virtuella
Summary: The War of the Ring is over, but all is not well. A look at the losses of the unnamed and unknown. 2008 MEFA 2nd place in combination with Tales of Promise
1. Rhun

**The Middle Earth setting and its original characters are the property of J.R.R.Tolkien. No copyright infringement is intended by this non-commercial fan fiction. **

I

My father gave me no trinket before he left, nothing to remember him by. He barely even looked back. He took his axe and his shield and set off with that strange fire in his eyes. The power that drew him away was stronger than his love for his family. It was the same with all of them, every man of weapon-bearing age in every house and cottage. A dark line of bodies marching away towards the sunset, leaving the women and the children and the old men. I must have been too young to hear that call. I did not understand it.

My mother wept, but not for long. The fields had to be ploughed, the cows milked, the sheep sheared. Farming folk cannot afford great mourning. Some highborn lady sitting on some white pinnacle might sing a lament to the sound of the lute. My mother put on my father's boots and harnessed the oxen. My brothers and sisters kept asking when Father would come home. I am the eldest. I knew.

My father was a quiet man. He told no stories, and I will never know now if he would have had any to tell. He made toys for the little ones: crudely carved animals and little blocks of wood painted as houses. Whenever he entered a room where my mother was, he would seek her eyes, and whatever she was doing, she would seek his. In the spring time, he would rub the new blades of grass between his fingers and hold them under our noses for us to smell.

But he marched off, in boots studded with iron, towards that shadowy country that filled the sky with ash and gloom. A great evil lived there, they say now, and we would have done better to fear it. The proud men of Gondor do not seem so threatening after all.

And now it is spring again. The great shadow is gone. They say there is a new king in the West, wise and just. If his wisdom is great enough, he may bring peace. Though I do not know if there is wisdom in this world that could make the barren lands flourish again. But justice? What justice could there be for our people of widows and orphans? Was it a judgement on us that our men fell under the shadow?

There is a new king in the West, and the world is sighing with relief. The sun is brighter and the sky bluer than I have seen them in my lifetime. With the shadow gone, creatures of light are pouring into our lands, sweetly singing birds, silvery fish and graceful deer. Already the fields are lush with the blades of the growing wheat. My father will not return.


	2. Minas Tirith

II

This would have been my wedding day.

Today I saw the Lord Faramir standing by the wall near the Houses of Healing, kissing a woman with golden hair. Many saw them. The shadow has passed and now joy and love return, they say.

These garments spread out before me, made with care by my mother and my aunt from the best fabric our family could afford. These tiny, tiny stitches that their elderly fingers are capable of. Trimmings of silk. Useless now, like fallen leaves.

We grew up together in opposite houses here in the third circle of the city, playing together in the street, making faces at each other from the windows on those rainy days when our mothers would not let us out. A boy and a girl bound together by the laughter and the games and the stories we shared. Seamlessly our childhood friendship turned into adult affection. No other objection did any of our parents have than that the times were darkening and the future uncertain. And yet we thought that we could wait for the spring, for that auspicious season.

This would have been my wedding ring. It is thin and light, all the gold that a carpenter's family could buy. For the sake of a ring this war was fought, for the sake of a single band of gold, heavier than this one for sure, but a ring only, nonetheless. That such a small thing should have yielded so much power.

Today the Lord Faramir has chosen his bride, standing by the wall looking East, towards the place where the Dark Lord was overcome by those they call the Periain. That such small folk should have defeated such evil. Today I stand in my chamber looking across the street towards a window that will remain empty.

These would have been my wedding shoes. Light and soft and meant for dancing, too delicate to walk the streets of stone day after day. The Periain wear no shoes, they say. With their bare feet they trod over the barren plain of Gorgoroth. Naked toes found the path to the salvation of us all.

Out there on the Pelennor Fields the wreckage of the battle lies still. All those siege engines and catapults. They sent into our city missiles of flame, shooting over the walls at great height, and thus it was that while I slew orcs by the gate, one landed in the third circle, where a woman was hurrying along the street on an errand for the Warden of the Houses of Healing.

Today the captains of the armies are rejoicing and the People of Gondor are beginning to rebuild their fair city. Today I run my fingers over my wedding garments, my wedding ring, my wedding shoes and marvel that I, a soldier, should live, while she, a healer, died in flame.


	3. Rohan

III

What shall I do about the shoes, I wonder? The boots are as good as new, good as new they are. Can't throw away a good boot like that. Shameful, throwing good shoes away. Maybe there is somebody... Have to ask around. Socks are not a problem, of course, but what about the shoes? No sense in having them standing around here like this.

How proud he was when he rode out. Fearful too, yes, but proud to be counted among the men. One of the riders of the Riddermark, eighteen years old, riding out with his head held high, just like his father, I always said, just like his father. On a cart they brought him back, together with many others who had been injured, and what shall I do about the shoes now?

Six years old he was when I taught him how to tie his laces. He sat on that little stool by the kitchen door. "Now, look," I said to him, "with your left hand you hold on here, and with your right hand..." Six years old. Learned it within two days, he did. Always had big feet, even when he was little, needed new shoes all the time, all the time. On a cart they brought him back, and he had ridden out so proudly...

The neighbours were quick to point out, weren't they, that I should be grateful he came back at all. As if I wasn't on my knees every night offering thanks to our Fathers for his return. But the shoes. Have to ask around if there is somebody... Always had such big feet, the boy.

Of course he had learned to ride a horse before he learned to tie his laces. His father taught him. Now there was a man with big feet if ever I saw one! Boots as big as crates. Taught him to ride a pony before he was four, as is right and proper. Lovely little pony it was, too. And he so clever on it, and so proud, though his feet didn't reach the stirrups.

Many didn't come back at all. Mustn't forget that, they say. As if I wasn't down on my knees every night. Our king, he never came back. Crushed by his own horse, they say. Not a good way to go, poor man, but we none of us know what's in store for us. Young Eomer now, he will be a king to be reckoned with, and as for Lady Eowyn, well, I always thought she was meant for great things. And it's the coming back that counts, for sure. If only I knew what to do about the shoes.

Always had such big feet, even when he was a baby. His father and I, we tickled his toes, and he laughed, oh, how he laughed! How he cried, when he fell down on his bed. "I shall never ride again, Mama." He's been crying every night since, though he waits now till he thinks I am asleep.

But he did come back. Mustn't forget. Tickled his toes, six years old he was, always had such big feet. Down on my knees every night, rode a pony before he was four, and what shall I do about the shoes now? How proudly he rode out, my baby, my only child, crying every night, my one-legged son.

* * *

_If you need cheered up after this, try the counterpart "Tales of Promise"_


End file.
